


and didn't i do it for you (why don't i do it for you)

by girl_harsher



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, They met in Crema but everything else is different, there's also a global pandemic going on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29135700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_harsher/pseuds/girl_harsher
Summary: It takes a couple of seconds before Oliver blinks. “Elio, I—what are you—? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”Elio shrugs. This is madness. “We wouldn’t have to make it a big deal.” He clears his throat. “It’s just your body. Think about it like—when you were hungry the other day and I cooked for us? Because you cannot even open a can right now?” He smirks but his heart beats in his throat. “Don’t tell me you’re being shy about this.”or: They met in Crema but everything else is different.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 25
Kudos: 67





	and didn't i do it for you (why don't i do it for you)

**Author's Note:**

> so, i originally started this with different characters in mind, characters that i don't feel comfortable writing about right now. but i _also_ didn't want to give up the original idea, so i changed it (a lot). and now what started out as a pwp has gotten... not as porn-y anymore. also more plot and more feelings. 
> 
> i hope that i did e/o some justice with this and that the alternate but also not so alternate setting isn't too jarring? 
> 
> the premise might also be just a little crack-y. i'm sorry.
> 
> anyway, i hope you all enjoy this! (this is not me being nervous, i swear)

When Elio moved from Italy to the US, he had great expectations. He had it all planned out, imagined it a bit like in the movies (but not _actually_ like in the movies because he wasn’t an idiot). Saw himself eating shitty hot dogs for lunch before strolling into the Guggenheim, maybe visiting some vernissage in the evening.

And for the first month, he did just that. His classes were amazing, his fellow students almost as into music as he was, he met two or three people he genuinely liked. Elio felt like he _fit_.

The first sign that nothing would work out as he had imagined it to was the global pandemic that reached the United States one month after Elio arrived in New York City, destroying every single one of Elio’s dreams of a sophisticated, cosmopolitan lifestyle. 

Instead, he’d been confronted with the reality of being stuck in a 400 square feet apartment with the former research assistant of his father. 

Which in and of itself wasn’t so bad, don’t get him wrong—when Elio got his acceptance letter for Julliard and his father, still in regular contact with Oliver, told him that Oliver had a spare room, he’d been thrilled. 

Elio had _hated_ the idea of having to share a dorm room with someone else, and when Oliver offered to "return the hospitality" and house Elio for the first few weeks so he could find his footing, Elio couldn’t refuse. 

Even though he hadn’t seen Oliver in almost two years, even though they had never been really friendly. Everything was better than living with a complete stranger.

(Elio had always wondered about the free room in Oliver’s apartment, an apartment that was definitely too small to share with anyone but a close friend. A lover. But when Elio asked him once, in the beginning, Oliver had gotten all cagey, so Elio quickly dropped the topic. It’s not like it’s any of his business. It’s not like he _cares_.)

It’s not like he doesn’t like Oliver—they get along just fine, most of the time. Much better than that summer two years ago, at least. And Oliver is a good enough roommate. Is pleasant to Elio but distant at the same time, just like he had been in Crema. 

Had invited him to meet some of his friends but only once. Wanted to know about Elio’s classes, his classmates, but not what Elio gets up to in the evenings. Asked about Elio’s parents, even Mafalda, but had never brought up the thinly veiled insults Elio threw at him back then. Hadn’t wanted to know the reason for it, and so Elio didn’t offer him one. 

So they got along well enough, but definitely not well enough to spend all of their time together in such a small space. 

But they did okay in the beginning—before it all went to shit. 

* * *

  
It probably started with Oliver breaking his wrist a couple of weeks ago before the pandemic had even hit. Out of all the scenarios where it could have happened, it happened while he was playing _squash_ with a friend (“—for the first fucking time and I knew that I should have said no”). Elio knows that he’s embarrassed by it because Oliver thinks playing squash in itself is incredibly _bougie_. And Elio had come to know that Oliver hated all things bougie (even though he had no problem with that while staying at Elio’s parents’ villa).

Oliver had been resigned over the health bill, even more so over the fact that he broke his right wrist in two places and his main task at work was typing, grading papers, even more typing.

So he had been in a bad mood, which Elio understood.

 _"Your parents are fucking rich, I’m not sure if you can even begin to understand,”_ Oliver had told him, which _ouch_. Elio should have taken that as the obvious warning it was and moved out. Fuck it, even the dorm rooms had to be better than this.

But he didn’t and it only got worse from then on. 

And here Elio is, trapped in a tiny apartment with Oliver, who seems to _hate_ him for reasons he cannot even begin to think of, courtesy of circumstances entirely out of his own hand. 

* * *

  
“And another pan! Lost to the fiery fires thanks to one Elio Perlman. Bravo.”

Elio’s face is flaming and he resolutely doesn’t look at Oliver nor the blackened crust on the bottom of one of their two remaining pans. “I already told you that I’m sorry.”

“Well, that didn’t save this pan, did it. Neither did it save the last one.” 

“I’ll buy a new one.” 

“Whatever.” 

Oliver leaves the kitchen with a flick of his hand. Elio slumps down. At least Oliver hadn’t commented on Elio’s spoilt upbringing, how he wasn’t even able to do even the simplest of things.

(He’d said that two days ago when Elio managed to _accidentally_ mix one of his red shirts with Oliver’s light wash, coloring a few shirts [a really nice and subtle] pink. Suffice to say Oliver hadn’t been amused.)

It’s not like Elio doesn’t know that he’s pretty much useless with household chores. But he’s trying, okay, and he already gets better at it. 

* * *

  
(When Elio said they hadn’t gotten along that summer, that had only been half of the truth. Or rather—they really hadn’t gotten along all that well.

But—

But.

Oliver had also been the first man Elio ever saw naked. The first man where it _meant_ something.

Seeing him naked had been kind of inevitable with how close their rooms were, the shared bathroom connecting them. It had been inevitable but Elio had still pushed for it.

He had followed Oliver one night, curious about his late-night expeditions. Curious whether Oliver would look at him differently in the moonlight. He had seen Oliver then, his naked body glowing against the dark background, balls deep in Chiara. Elio had left the spot, flustered. Had never come as hard as that night.

So with Oliver with his long legs, his toned abs, and proportional cock, came Elio’s bisexual awakening. And it came down hard. 

He had lost his virginity to Marzia one day later, in the same spot. It had been over embarrassingly quick and Elio blames it in part on the vivid image of Oliver fucking into Chiara from behind, the thrusts languid, an arm wrapped around her slim stomach, keeping her upright.

[They decided afterwards that they were better of as friends, Marzia and him. Elio misses her and the smell of her clove cigarettes, the way she would tangle her hand in his hair, the gesture sometimes soothing, sometimes on the verge of something else, the pull on this side of too painful.]

So for Elio to say that Oliver and him didn’t get along—that might not have been the entire truth either.)

* * *

“Could you _please_ stop practicing at fucking three in the morning?”

Elio blinks at Oliver, caught off-guard. “This is an e-piano. I wear headphones.” 

“I can fucking hear you clicking through the wall, so if you could please do this shit at a normal time—much appreciated.” And with this, he shuts the door with a resounding bang.

“What the fuck,” Elio mouths to himself.

* * *

  
When Oliver’s mood isn’t getting better over the next few days, Elio does what he always does when he's at a loss: he talks to his mother.

He’s not ashamed to say that he misses her, misses them both. Misses the villa and the orchard, all that space, because there’s not much of that where Elio is right now. 

“I think he hates me.” Elio keeps his voice as quiet as possible. The walls _are_ really thin.

“Oh tesoro,” she says and Elio’s heart aches with the wish to have her here, her hand in his hair. “I’m sure that’s not true. Maybe there’s something going on in his life that you don’t know about?” She’s quiet for a moment. “Did you ask him?” 

“…no.”

“Elio.” She chastises him gently. “You boys should stick together right now, watch out for each other.” 

He sighs because he knows she’s right. She’s always right. “Okay, mama.” 

So because she’s always right, Elio makes the plan to ask Oliver immediately after the call. He still waits a day or two, just to make sure he’s not imagining things. 

* * *

Oliver’s mood isn’t getting better, to say the least. Maybe it’s getting even worse. He keeps to himself for most of the following two days but whenever he and Elio cross paths, Oliver’s look is scathing. He looks at Elio like he wants to eat him alive and sadly not in the good way.

So on Friday, 9pm on the dot, Elio stands in front of Oliver’s room and hesitates. It’s not like he’s _afraid_. It’s just that he’d always been bad at confrontation. He’d rather leave things be and will the problem to go away on its own. 

So Elio hesitates but he _did_ grow up and so he lifts his hand, knocks and braces himself.

“Yes?” Oliver responds and he sounds kind of annoyed. They are off to a great start.

Elio still takes it as permission to enter. Blinks. Oliver sits hunched over against his headboard, only wearing a ratty set of sweatpants. The curtains are drawn and the only light comes from the little lamp on his bedside table. There’s a half-empty bottle of red wine propped precariously next to him against the pillow. It looks like he’s in the middle of throwing a pity party for himself and while this sort of behavior wouldn’t be uncommon for Elio, it certainly is for Oliver.

“What?” Oliver asks but makes no move at standing up or even properly sitting up.

Elio swallows. “Uh—do you have a moment?” 

Oliver simply looks at him for an uncomfortably long time, before he seems to remember that the polite thing would be to answer. He straightens himself up. “Sure. Come in.” 

Elio shuts the door behind himself, leans against it. The only other place besides the bed (which is off-limits for obvious reasons) is Oliver’s desk chair, which is covered in what looks like dirty laundry. So the door it is. 

“I just wanted to ask—are you okay?” Maybe not the smoothest way to start this conversation. Elio tries again: “It’s just—you’ve been kinda off these past couple of days—” (weeks) “—and I was just wondering whether it was something I did or something that happened or if you’ve just been in a bad mood or—”

Elio stops then. God, he’s bad at this.

Oliver blinks and then his shoulders are slumping. If they were any closer, Elio would probably give him a hug. “God, no—it’s—you didn’t do anything.” He sighs but doesn’t offer any more information.

“So I didn’t do anything but you still treat me like shit. Doesn’t seem fair to me.” Elio crosses his arms in front of his body. Uncrosses them again. He feels weirdly defensive even though he’s definitely the one in the right here. “Look, if you want me to move out, I’m sure I could find something or—” 

_“No,”_ Oliver says and he actually sits up now. Swings his feet over the side of the bed. “That’s not it, okay? And I’ll try to work through this on my own and be nicer to you. Promise.” 

Elio knows that he should let it go but he’d always been bad at accepting people’s boundaries. _Oliver’s_ boundaries. 

So he squares his shoulders, pushes himself off the door. “Look, I only want to help you, okay? Because life is pretty shitty for me as well right now and it’d be great if I would at least get along with my temporary roommate. It’s not like I can go out and meet other people, is it.” 

He almost expects Oliver to say something like _yeah well, this isn’t about you for once_ but instead Oliver sighs and it sounds defeated. Is probably reminded of how stubborn Elio can be. “It’s embarrassing, okay?” He chuckles, drives a hand through his hair that’s already a little longer than he usually wears it now. “Jesus, you really want me to say it out loud, do you?

Elio shrugs. Nods. 

“It’s my wrist. I can’t do—certain things anymore. Because I use my left hand for literally everything else and I—” he sighs and Elio swears his ears are a touch pinker than they were just seconds before. “I’m just stressed out, okay? I’ll try to think of a solution. Again, I’m sorry for being an ass.” 

Elio blinks. It takes a couple of seconds for him to process the words, a couple more for the other shoe to drop. Then it’s Elio’s turn to blush. “You mean you—”

“Look, I really appreciate your concern but I really don’t want to talk about this.” Oliver gets up and Elio takes a step back. Tries not to look at his hairy chest. Tries not to let his gaze drop even further, considering the information he just got.

Oliver passes him, opens the door. “Let’s do something fun tomorrow, ok? But for now I think we should call it a night.” 

Elio nods, his face still hot. He steps into the door frame. Nods again. 

He is almost out in the hallway when he stops. His mind is still going a mile a minute because did Oliver really just tell him that he’s got a problem with _getting off?_ This seems like a weird fever dream. 

This being a fever dream is the only reason he can come up with for what he does next. But then he thinks about that summer two years ago and how Oliver's naked body had looked in the back of the orchard and maybe there's another reason.

“You know,” Elio clears his throat, "that this is, in theory, something I could help you with.”

Oliver freezes, his hand still on the door. Elio can feel the warmth radiating from his body, has to tip his head back to meet his wide eyes. 

It takes a couple of seconds before Oliver blinks. “Elio, I—what are you—? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Elio shrugs. This is madness. “We wouldn’t have to make it a big deal.” He clears his throat. “It’s just your body. Think about it like—when you were hungry the other day and I cooked for us? Because you cannot even open a can right now?” He smirks but his heart beats in his throat. “Don’t tell me you’re being shy about this.”

Oliver looks at him and for a second, Elio thinks he broke him. But then his forehead smooths and he exhales, any expression wiped off his face. “Look—I appreciate the offer but that’s not an option. I’ll survive.” 

“Yeah but you treating me like shit for the foreseeable future is also not an option.” Elio doesn’t know what gives him the strength to be this nonchalant about this when he feels anything but.“Look, I’ve always been curious—” — _about your cock._ Elio bites his lips. “—whether I might be bisexual. So you’d do me favor, even.”

Oliver raises his eyebrows and Elio is sure that this is the moment where Oliver would call him out on his bullshit. Would maybe even call him out on this stupid little crush he had on him since that summer two years ago. He probably wouldn’t be mean about it, would just look at Elio with sympathetic eyes, sigh and say, _"don’t you think it’s time to let this go? Grow up."_

Instead, he takes a step back into the room. “I would do you a favor. Letting you jerk me off.” 

Elio jerks his head in what he hopes comes off as a nod. Hearing Oliver say it out loud makes it real, tangible all of a sudden. 

“You are mad,” Oliver says and he’s not wrong. 

Elio nods again, steps closer to Oliver. Tips his head back and licks his lips. “I’m just offering. You can say no.” 

Oliver’s eyes are wide and dark as they flicker towards Elio’s lips, his neck. Elio knows that he already made his decision. He might not have wanted Elio two years ago but he certainly does now. At least when there’s no other option on the table.

“Fuck.” He curses softly under his breath. “Okay. Okay. But just—with your hand, okay? And we can stop whenever you want, okay?” 

Elio feels like somebody punched the air out of him. His following _yes_ is embarrassingly squeaky.

Oliver searches Elio’s eyes for something, brows furrowed. Then he nods again. “Okay,” he repeats. His voice is soft.

The next few seconds are awkward as hell. They shuffle around, unsure what is appropriate and what isn’t. Hell, nothing about this is appropriate anymore. They come to sit next to each other on Oliver’s bed with the cast on the other side of them so it wouldn’t get in the way. Elio exhales at the sight of their thighs next to each other, the difference in their size visible even through their clothing. 

And then Oliver hooks the fingers of his good hand under the waistband of his sweatpants, hesitates for a second or two, before pulling them down, letting the band settle under his balls. 

Oliver’s cock is just as Elio remembered it, thick and slightly darker than the rest of his skin. He’s also already half-way to getting hard and Elio tries not to be nervous about this. He did this to himself all the time after all and it’s not like he _never_ did this for another man.

Elio lets his gaze flicker up, silently asking for permission. Oliver nods almost imperceptibly. So Elio brings his hand to Oliver’s cock, wraps it around it, slowly, carefully. Oliver’s cock jumps slightly when Elio’s fingers hit the soft flesh, whether it’s from the cold or because Oliver hasn’t been touched by another person for a long time. Elio hopes it’s neither.

He lets his hand slide up and down for a couple of seconds but the friction is dry and this way it won’t be pleasurable for the both of them.

“Do you mind?” Elio brings his hand up to his lips, gathers spit in his mouth.

“Do I—” Oliver’s eyes widen as he catches on. “Fuck, wait—I have lube.”

Elio deflates slightly. There’s something about the idea of getting Oliver off with just the help of his own fluid that excites him.

But he dutifully lowers his hand, waits for Oliver to hand him the lube.

It’s better like this and Elio hears Oliver sigh softly. The angle is different then when Elio does this to himself, his fingers just barely closing over it. Oliver’s cock is hot and heavy in his hand. It looks like it belongs there. 

Elio wants it to belong there.

They are so close like this, Elio can see every single one of Oliver’s long eyelashes. The spot of stubble below his jaw that he must have missed when shaving this morning. His full pink lips, slightly parted, looking even more devastating in profile.

He’s gorgeous and the sudden want Elio feels surging up in his stomach is unexpected. Elio wants to slide in his lap, rut against his cock. Wants Oliver’s good hand to slide over his neck, his back, his ass. He wants Oliver’s come between his ass cheeks, on his own cock. Wants to kiss him and Oliver’s eyes to widen in wonder at what Elio has become.

Instead he quickens the movements of his own hand. Oliver’s cock looks huge in Elio’s hand, massive and thick in between Elio’s thin, long fingers. Perfect fingers for playing the piano but also for getting others off. 

Elio wonders if Oliver would ever allow him to smooth them over his asshole, dip inside. If he’d allow him to trace his muscles, the hairs on the inside of his thighs. Elio never was good at painting but for Oliver’s body, he’d like to try.

Shaking his head, he resumes his focus on Oliver’s cock. Doesn’t look up again because he doesn't know if he could handle the expression on Oliver's face. Whether he's watching Elio or not. It’s only when Oliver seems to get close, his hips lifting to meet Elio’s hand, that Elio finds it in himself to lift his gaze.

Oliver‘s eyes are closed, his head tipped back, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. Elio wants to lick his parted lips, the sweat covering his temples. 

Instead he tightens his grip just a little bit, picks up his speed. His hand begins to cramp but Oliver comes only seconds later with an almost silent moan, his abdomen tensing, the V of his hips getting more pronounced.

Elio watches as Oliver coats the hair on his chest, his stomach with pearlescent come.

Elio doesn’t move to lick it off but it’s a close call.

„Better now?“ His own voice is embarrassingly rough, almost as if he had been the one who got off just seconds ago. 

His own cock is hot and heavy in his jeans, uncomfortably pulsing against his boxers.

Oliver huffs out a laugh, his eyes still closed. He straightens himself up after a moment. His eyes are dark when they meet Elio‘s.

„Better now. Thank you.“

He tucks himself in, grabs the shirt lying beside his bed to wipe the come off his chest. It’s one of the pink ones and Elio never wanted an item of clothing so much.

„Do you need anything else or—"

„No!“ 

Elio recoils from the quick response. 

Oliver immediately looks guilty. „No,“ he repeats, much softer this time. „You did me a huge favor. Thank you, Elio.“

Elio swallows, nods. He thinks that Oliver never said his name like this before, with affection, voice like a blanket. 

„Okay I’ll—see you tomorrow then. I guess.“ 

Oliver nods and his smile is small. Elio thinks he might want to say something else, maybe tell Elio that it was good, that maybe they could do this again.

Instead Oliver says, “sleep well,” and that’s it. So Elio returns the smile, leaves the room. Shuts the door and leans against it for a moment. Exhales and it’s only then that the reality of what they just did sinks in.

He offered to get Oliver off and Oliver accepted. 

_Holy shit._

When Elio lies in his bed, he wraps the exact same hand he had touched Oliver with around his cock, doesn’t even tease himself like he’d usually do but sets a quick rhythm from the get-go. 

He comes in record time, picturing Oliver’s hand instead of his own. Pictures Oliver’s come smoothing the way, pictures licking their combined spent off his hand.

Falls asleep thinking that this was probably not what his mother had in mind but hoping that it worked anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> wanted to end this on a cliffhanger but i'm not that heartless apparently.  
> ANYWAY, i hope you liked this<3 hit me up on tumblr @girl-softer if you want to chat.


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